How could I not? She’s been telling me my whole life. “Don’t worry. I have zero interest in dating a player, Mom.”
Why would I? My father was a deadbeat quarterback more interested in chasing the NFL dream—and the women, drugs, and parties that came with it—than raising a family. And don’t even get me started on the linebacker I dated in high school. Cheating asshole got some random jersey chaser knocked up senior year and I had to find out about it on Insta. #Loser.
So, yeah. No players for me. Been there, done that, have the emotional scars to prove it. Besides, Coach made it clear if I step out of line, I can kiss my scholarship goodbye.
“Promise me,” she says as the bus pulls up to the stop. “Promise me that you will not get involved with any of those boys on the team, Kennedy. I don’t want to see you end up like me.”
“I promise.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and climb to my feet. I hate it when she says that. I know she loves me down to the marrow in her bones—I’ve always known it—but I can’t help the guilt that claws at my throat every time I hear those words. What would her life have been like if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with me? “I have to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.” I disconnect and stuff the phone in my bag. My heart is beating double time and Mom’s little pep talk didn’t exactly help. I exit the bus and stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the home of Wildcat football. The heat wave from hell continues and the afternoon sun glints off the front of the two-story building, forcing me to squint.
Thanks to a massive fundraising effort, the building was renovated a few years ago to the tune of twelve million dollars. Seems excessive to me, but then again, I’m a nerd at heart, so I can think of about twelve million better ways to spend that kind of cash than dropping it on an eighty-nine-thousand square foot sports facility with a thirteen-thousand square foot weight room. And why do they even need four practice fields anyway?
Shit. I’m so nervous I’m doing the numbers thing, letting my brain default to facts and figures because it’s what I know best. Some people do yoga to relax. I do numbers. I gulp down the humid air, solidifying my resolve. I’ll count my way through the whole damn practice if I have to, but I’ve come this far and I’m not going to back out now.
I march right into the building, doing my best to ignore the flashy decor (this place is rocking some serious Wildcat pride), and give myself props for finding the locker room without too much trouble.
Go me!
Coach Jackson is waiting at the door when I arrive. We exchange curt greetings, and I follow him into the nine-thousand square foot locker room, which is home to one hundred thirteen players. All of whom seem to freeze when I enter. That’s two hundred and twenty-six eyes fixed on me. Not counting the coaching staff.
The locker room is split into three wide rows, with one row of white lockers running across the back wall, the better for everyone to get a look at me. Not that I care what they think, but all those eyes? It’s a lot of pressure. I resist the urge to shift my bag and straighten my spine, forcing myself to meet the stares of my new teammates.
Talk about awkward. Scratch that—it’s awkward as hell.
Thankfully Coach Collins enters, disrupting the stunned silence. The locker room devolves into chaos, but he quickly squashes it, calling for attention.
“Listen up,” he says, his gritty voice carrying easily through the large space. “This is Kennedy Carter. She’ll be joining Special Teams as a placekicker, working with Coach Jackson. Carter will take Spellman’s spot on the roster,” he says, turning my way to ensure he’s got my attention, “and just like everyone else, she’ll be fighting for a starting position.”
I meet his stare. Message received.
He pauses and the room erupts again, louder than before. I only catch a few snatches of conversation, mostly shock at the prospect of a female joining the team.
No surprise there. It’s a first for me too.
Pretty sure I also hear something about making the Wildcats the laughingstock of the conference.
“Is this shit for real?” a guy with a fauxhawk mutters and I feel my cheeks redden. I should have realized this would be an issue. Because fauxhawk? He doesn’t look like the kind of dude to embrace feminism.
“Watch yourself, Langley.” It’s Coach Collins who speaks first. “Carter is a member of this team and will be shown the same respect you’d give any other player. You feel me?”
“Yes, sir,” Langley says, although the look on his face is anything but compliant.
Reid steps forward, positioning himself to my left. It’s a show of solidarity from their captain, and I have to admit I appreciate it.
“All right. Settle down!” Reid waves his hands, gesturing for his teammates—our teammates—to bring it down. “Now, I’m proud to be a Wildcat and it’s an honor to lead this team.” He stands tall, shoulders back, and scans the room, making eye contact with each of his guys. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s got a strong jaw and it’s lined with the slightest bit of scruff, like he didn’t have time to shave today. Normally I’d find it sexy, but he’s a football player, so, yeah.
“We’ve got the best offense in the Big Ten,” he bellows, starting back up. He pauses and the guys to my right whoop their agreement with a few shouts of “Hell, yeah!” thrown in. His attention shifts to the players gathered on the left. “And we’ve got the best defense, am I right?”
The response from the defense is even louder and someone sets off one of those roaring sound effects that sounds just like our Wildcat mascot.
“Special Teams caught a tough break losing Spellman,” he continues and a wave of agreement passes through the room. I figure I’m the only one questioning the use of the phrase tough break because, hello, drunken dare? Curiosity takes root and I make a mental note to get the full story from Reid. “Replacing Spellman won’t be easy, but if we want a national championship, we’ve got to explore all avenues to fill his spot. We’ve busted our asses to make this team the best in the conference. I sure as hell don’t want to lose a game over a missed field goal.”
There’s a rumble of assent from the team. “Got that right!” Coop calls. Then the cocky bastard winks at me.
I pretend not to notice and flip the end of my ponytail over my shoulder.
Reid turns to me then, a half-smile playing across his full lips. “Carter’s got a decade and a half of experience playing on the soccer field and she’s got a damn fine leg. We’re lucky to have her on the team. I expect every one of you to welcome her with open arms. Let’s show her the hospitality and class that makes Wildcat football the best in the country!” By the time he finishes, he’s practically shouting, but his enthusiasm is infectious and the team responds to it, stomping their feet and doing the school cheer.
“This is our year!” he thunders, cheeks flushed, eyes alight, totally in the zone. “I want that national title. Who’s with me?” he asks, pumping a fist in the air.
The noise level in the locker room reaches a deafening roar, and I’m impressed by how well Reid commands the room. But I guess I shouldn’t be. He was born and bred for this. The son of a legendary quarterback (yes, I Googled him), he grew up in this world. And he probably knows better than anyone in the room that winning means more parties, more women, and more privilege, something I’ve never experienced. The cocky QB may be talking me up to the team, but I’m not naive enough to think he’s doing it for my benefit. His endgame is clear. He’s doing it for a shot at a national title, one he thinks I can help deliver.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Four
Austin
Morning practices are a bitch, but they’re better than hitting the weight room at six in the morning, which will start next week with the fall semester. The life of a D1 athlete isn’t nearly as glamorous as people think. Our schedules are grueling. Every minute of the day is packed with training activities, le
aving just enough time for basic necessities like eating and showering.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to throw off the last dregs of sleep, and open my locker without acknowledging Coop, who’s flexing his biceps in the mirror. I’ve seen him practice the move a few dozen times already this season. Lucky for him, I’m too damn tired to bust his balls about it. I drop my bag in the bottom of the locker, kicking off my sneakers and adding them to the carefully contained mess. Coach instituted a new rule this year: clean locker rooms. It’s part of his Sweep the Shed philosophy. Not that I’m complaining. Man’s got a point. The mess in the locker room has a tendency to spill over into other areas of our lives and onto the field, which is the last thing we need.
“Never have I ever seen a bigger douche,” Vaughn says, giving Coop a slap on the back. Vaughn slams the door to his locker and tucks his helmet under his arm, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you ever get tired of admiring yourself?”
“Hell no.” A slow grin spreads across Coop’s face. “Word of advice: you’re going to have a hard time getting laid with that ugly-ass beard of yours.”
“What’s wrong with my beard?” Vaughn looks genuinely perplexed as his gaze flits from Coop to me and back again.
“Aside from the fact that it needs its own zip code?” I ask, shamelessly piling on. Vaughn’s a good sport and despite his intimidating appearance, he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He’s the kind of guy who will do anything for a friend and has impeccable manners, even in the locker room where anything goes.
“Seriously, bro. Just because you’re from West Virginia doesn’t mean you have to look like a mountain man,” Coop says, shaking his head like he’s an expert on the subject. Then again, he does have a pretty large female following on campus, so maybe he actually does know what the hell he’s talking about. “You think a girl wants all that,” he says, gesturing to Vaughn’s overgrown beard, “scratching her special place while you’re going down on her?” The air quotes he makes when he says special place send the guys around us into a fit of laughter.
Vaughn blushes, his cheeks growing scarlet above the dark scruff. “Fuck off.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Coop calls out as Vaughn retreats down the aisle, giving us the one-finger salute over his shoulder.
Okay, so that thing I said about Vaughn’s manners? They’re usually flawless, but Coop’s made it his mission to, as he puts it, “loosen the guy up.” I strip off my T-shirt, pulling it over my head, and slip into my shoulder pads, making quick work of the straps. I should’ve gotten up earlier. As team captain, I should be the first one on the field, not the last.
“So, I hear Special Teams is practicing on the field with us today,” Coop says, closing his locker and leaning a shoulder against it.
I glance up at him, not sure where he’s going with this. “So?”
“So, that means we’ll get to see Carter in action.” He grins and wiggles his brows. “I hope she’s wearing shorts today.”
“Don’t be an asshole.” I glare up at him as I step out of my shorts and toss them in the locker. “It’s one hundred fucking degrees outside. Of course she’ll be wearing shorts. And no one’s going to say shit, got it?”
“That’s what I thought.” Coop smirks. “The lady doth protest too much.”
I shake my head and grab my jockstrap. The thing ain’t pretty, but it gets the job done. “As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Riiiiigght.”
I drop onto the bench in front of my locker and brace myself for more of Coop’s brand of wisdom, but it never comes.
“What the fuck?” he says, staring down at his pants. He does a weird little shimmy and before I know it, he’s jamming his hand down the front of his pants, scratching his balls. “What. The. Actual. Fuck!” he howls, going to town on his johnson.
Parker, who’s about as big a morning person as I am, turns from his locker and gives me a WTF? look before turning back to Coop with a wicked gleam in his eye. “I told you to double bag that shit. Bet it burns when you piss too.”
“I don’t have an STD, asshole,” Coop mutters, yanking his pants down and inspecting his junk. “I always wrap it before I tap it.” The volume in the locker room begins to climb and there’s more yelling and cussing than usual. Coop kicks off his cleats and strips off his pants before lifting his jockstrap for inspection. I avert my eyes. I’m used to being surrounded by naked dudes, but I don’t need his dick right in my face. “Which one of you assholes put itching powder in my jockstrap?” he yells, holding up the flimsy garment. “That shit’s not funny!”
Yeah fuckin’ right. It’s hilarious considering Coop is one of the biggest pranksters on the team. Parker and I both snicker. “Payback’s a bitch,” Parker says, extending his closed fist so I can bump it. Then his face goes slack and he glances down, a look of panic on his face. “Oh shit.”
I inspect the jockstrap in my hand and decide not to risk it. Looks like Coop isn’t the only one getting pranked, and I’d rather free ball it than spend the day with my hand down my pants. I toss the jock on the bench and tug on my practice pants.
The locker room erupts in chaos and Coach storms in, no doubt wondering why the team is standing around with their dicks in their hands when they should be on the field. “What the hell is going on in here?” he roars, glancing around at his half-dressed team. He narrows his eyes in my direction. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m captain or because I’m the only one wearing pants. “Reid, care to tell me why you aren’t on the field yet?”
I sigh and rub the back of my neck. Not really. After the Spellman incident, Coach made it clear he expects us to toe the line. If he finds out who did this, there could be a suspension involved.
“Well, sir,” I say, stalling for time and forcing myself to meet his steely gaze. “It seems—”
“Spit it out, son.” He waves his hand impatiently and my gaze slides to Coop. He’s too busy scratching to crack the joke Coach just set up and I know we’re in deep shit.
“Someone put itching powder in our jockstraps,” I say, relieved I narrowly avoided the same fate as my teammates. How’s that for loyalty?
“Fuckin’ pranks,” Coach mutters, shaking his head. “Who did this?” he demands, face flushing a deep shade of crimson as he scans the locker room. I seriously doubt anyone’s going to step forward, but the truth will come out eventually. It always does over a couple of beers and a solid brag. “Y’all wanna win a national title and you’re wasting my time with this kind of romper-room bullshit? You have ten minutes to take care of business and get your asses on the field. And when I find out who did this…” The rest of the threat is lost in the pandemonium of the locker room as he stomps back to his office.
“Who do you think did it?” Parker asks, using a towel to dust off his junk.
“No clue,” I say, glancing around to see if anyone else dodged the itching powder bullet, “but I hope it’s not one of our guys.”
Or worse yet, Carter.
Four minutes later, I take the field fully dressed. I’m nothing if not an overachiever. Most of the guys are still washing up, so it’s just me, Carter, and a few of the support staff.
The sun’s already high in the sky, and I can feel my temperature rise as I swagger down the sideline to where Carter’s stretching, waiting for the team huddle.
“It’s about time,” she says, not bothering to look up. She’s sitting on the ground with her legs spread, stretching her hamstrings. Her blue shorts are, well, short, not leaving much to the imagination and reminding me of Coop’s suggestive comments. Carter’s got great legs. They’re long, golden, and perfectly toned. I’ll bet they’re smooth as hell too. Desire stirs in my gut and I drag my eyes from her shapely legs, instead fixing them on her face—or rather, the back of her head, since she’s not looking at me. Her dark hair is braided, falling over her shoulder, and she’s wearing a headband, not unlike the one circling my own forehead. “I can’t believ
e you had the nerve to give me crap about punctuality when I’m literally the only one who showed up on time today.”
“There was an incident,” I say, trying to keep the edge from my voice.
“Oh?” She looks up—and interested—for the first time. “Do tell.”
I study her carefully, searching her dark eyes for any sign she might have been the one behind the prank. After all, as she so quickly pointed out, she was the only one who showed up on time today. Kind of convenient, isn’t it? And while most of the guys have been cool with Carter’s presence on the team, there are a few, like Langley, who still need to be brought into line. Couldn’t exactly blame her if she was looking for a little payback, although I’d rather put on a Buckeyes jersey and stroll across campus than admit it out loud.
“Come on, spill,” she prods with a grin, her full lips tilting up at the corners.
Damn, she has a nice smile. Too bad those lips are dedicated to the forces of evil. I could think of better ways to put that mouth to use than all the snark she’s been dishing. Much better ways.
Shit. I sound like Coop.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck, feeling like an asshole. “Someone put itching powder in the guys’ jockstraps,” I say, going on the offensive. The last thing I should be thinking about is Carter’s lips. Coach would have my ass. Besides, I’ve got a national title to win, which would be a helluva lot easier if my teammates weren’t in the locker room scratching their balls. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Carter snort-laughs. “Priceless.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and climbs to her feet. She’s not quite tall enough to look me directly in the eye, but she comes closer than most girls, which is kind of hot. Some of the guys on the team are into short girls—spinners, they call them—but I’m a leg guy all day long. “I wish I could take credit, but sadly, the thought never even crossed my mind.” She smirks. “But I’d love to meet the evil genius behind the prank, because she’s clearly awesome.”
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 4